"I do not think that gods sleep as men do, nor is their dreaming harmless." Ochen's tunic shifted, rustling; perhaps he shrugged. "We speak of matters that have occupied the wazir-narimasu for centuries, and I am too humble a mage to pretend full knowledge of such affairs, but I suspect that just as Tharn is aware of those who seek to raise him, so is he aware of those who stand against that end. Perhaps not of you, personally, but in the way that a dog—forgive me—is aware of the fleas that roam its hide."
"So now," said Bracht softly, "we face an enemy greater even than Rhythamun."
"Have you not all down your road?" The slitted eyes turned on the Kern. "Has your way not always been opposed?"
"By men," Bracht said. "Sometimes by creatures of the occult."
"And you have overcome those obstacles." Ochen nodded, confirming his own observation. "Neither have you faltered."
"We had not thought to face the god himself," Calandryll murmured. "Rhythamun, aye. But the Mad God himself?"
"Shall you turn back then?" Ochen wondered. "My promise remains—safe passage across the Kess Imbrun."
"No!"
The denial was voiced unthinking, echoed by Bracht and Katya. The Kern said, "We've come too far."
Ochen chuckled, the sound musical, and clapped his hands in approval. "Perhaps it shall not come to that," he said. "Perhaps we shall halt this Rhythamun before he reaches Anwar-teng. Or"—an afterthought—"the Borrhun-maj."
“Wei” asked Bracht.
"Of course." The silvered head fragmented shards of brilliance as it nodded. "Did you think to go on alone? What aid is ours to give, you shall have in full measure."
Across the table, their faces shadowed now, Chazali and Temchen grunted their agreement.
"I propose," said Ochen, "that we quit this place as soon we may. Do I employ myself, I can banish the last of Rhythamun's gramaryes ere long, and then we may proceed to Pamur-teng. The warriors march by now, but there may be news; if not, then we go on to join the armies."
"At Anwar-teng?" Calandryll wondered.
"There they march," Ochen confirmed. "There, I think, Rhythamun must surely go."
"And should he avoid the hold? Make for the Borrhun-maj ?"
"Anwar-teng is closer, its defenses made by men, not gods." Ochen stroked a moment at his mustache, musing. "Does he go past the hold, then I shall know—and we shall pursue him."
"The wazir-narimasu," offered Katya, "shall they not deny him access to this gateway?"
"As best they may," Ochen replied, "but theirs is a way of peace, and I fear this close to Tharn, Rhythamun may find the strength to overcome them."
"How is this gate so easily broached?" Bracht clenched a fist, opened it, frustrated.
Ochen sighed and said, "Anwar-teng was built to guard the gate, to conceal it. The secret has been ever close-kept, and few know of its existence—the wazir-narimasu, the clan sorcerers, none others ere now. Until I deemed it needful neither Chazali nor Temchen thought Anwar-teng more than the hold of the Soto-Imjen, of the Mahzlen. It was never thought any should be so crazed as to seek entry, and so the wazir-narimasu look to prevent exit rather than ingress."
"Shall Rhythamun know it?"
Calandryll clutched straw, snatched from him by Ochen's solemn answer: "I think he must. Even does he not already, then I think Tharn will find a way to alert him."
"Ahrd!" Bracht's hand was fisted again, crashing angrily against the table's top, wine jug and cups rattling, the action eliciting grunts of disapproval from the two armored officers. "Does all favor the gharan-evur?"
Ochen's brows rose, but he offered no reply. Katya said, "He must yet reach the teng; enter to reach the gate. What chance have we of overtaking him?"
"Some." Ochen's voice remained solemn. He turned to Temchen: "Do you find us a chart?"
The kutushen nodded and rose, disappearing into the shadows that filled the farther reaches of the chamber. There was the sound of wood scraping, a cover lifted and replaced, and Temchen returned to the table, spreading a scroll within the radius of the sunlight, weighting the corners with cups as all rose, clustering round as Chazali indicated the map, his guttural voice identifying the places marked thereon.
"The Kess Imbrun; we are here." A blunt nail tapped, moving on a line, northward. "This is Pamur-teng; this, Anwar-teng."
Ochen's spell did not extend to comprehension of the written word, but as Chazali pointed to each hold, Calandryll saw that Pamur-teng and Ozali- teng stood much on a line, the tengs of Zaq and Fechin to the east, above and below, hostile Bachan-teng a little south of the lake, closest to the besieged city. He asked, "How far to Pamur-teng?"
"Thirty days do we ride hard," advised Chazali. "To Anwar-teng, another thirty. Far slower at the army's pace."
"The armies march now?" Calandryll stared at the map, willing himself to recall the lessons in strategy, tactics, he had suffered long ago in Secca, thinking them then no more than vaguely interesting historical studies.
"They do," the kiriwashen confirmed.
Calandryll peered, frowning, and touched a finger to the dot that marked the site of Bachan-teng. "This hold will come out to block them, no?" he asked. "You'll meet in battle?"
"You've the grasp of it." Chazali smiled grim approval, nodding. "Aye, they'll likely act as rearguard. They've already warriors about Anwar-teng's walls, though it's the others that form the main force."
"Shall Pamur-teng and Ozali-teng march together?" Calandryll looked from chart to dark, stern face. "Or look to divide the opposing army?"
Now Chazali barked laughter, glancing at Temchen, at Ochen. "He's the gift of strategy besides whatever else," he applauded. To Calandryll, "The warriors of the clan Tessana will march north out of Ozali-teng, to the southern shore of Lake Galil; our Makusen make directly for Anwar- teng—aye, we look to divide and weaken the enemy."
"But still these others lay siege." Calandryll set a finger to the marking of Anwar-teng. "And Rhythamun will likely hold the shape of a Makusen warrior until it serves him better to take another."
"That, or go on alone," grunted Bracht. "To Anwar-teng, and there steal another's form."
"Aye." Calandryll nodded absently. "But for now he's likely served best by the shape he has. Do we ride hard, perhaps ..."
"We can do little else," said Katya.
"We can overtake the army," Chazali declared, and looked to Cennaire. "Perhaps then you might recognize him."
The Kand woman ducked her raven head, not speaking, her lovely face grave.
"Still no easy task," Bracht murmured. "To find one man in an army? Of how many?"
"Thousands," said Chazali. "Three thousand from Pamur-teng alone."
Bracht said, "Shall it be possible?"
"I’ve sight beyond my eyes," said Ochen. "Pve known something of his magicks, and that must make it the easier to recognize him, even does he look to guise himself with occult means."
"It seems," Calandryll declared, still studying the chart, "that for now all we can do is chase the army; and hope. How long before we may leave?"
The mage succeeded in shaping his wrinkles in an expression of apology. "To cleanse this keep of all the befouling gramaryes will take another day, at least," he murmured.
Calandryll frowned. Bracht waved an irritable hand: "No sooner? Ahrd, can we not leave now? Must we grant him more time?"
"This keep must be manned," said Chazali. "That duty belongs to Pamur-teng, and the clan Makusen does not renege its promises. Nor will I leave men in a post cursed by fell sorcery."
Voice and face were firm, brooking no argument; Bracht shrugged, muttering an inarticulate oath. Katya suggested, "Might some not go on?"
"That would be . . . unwise." Ochen pointed a golden nail at Calandryll. "Pve the feeling Rhythamun may know now of your coming—at least suspect it—and perhaps leave . . . hindrances . .. along his way. You'll travel safer in my company, but Pve a duty to my clan—Temchen remains here with his century and I'd not leave him prey
to occult creations. So, no—I fear you must curb your impatience."
"Before, you gave us leave to go," said Bracht. "Would you now halt us?"
"Horul, but I'd heard you folk of Cuan na'For were headstrong." Potential insult was defused by the sorcerer's smile, his friendly tone. "You'd travel an unknown land, strangers, unescorted? Hostile armies on the march? And roving bands of tensai? How far should you get, think you?"
"We've come thus far," snapped the Kern, "and traveled stranger lands than this."
It was difficult, Calandryll realized, for him to forget long-held prejudices. The self-imposed isolation of the Jesserytes, all the tales told of them, still rendered them suspicious in Bracht's eyes: for all the friendship shown, trust was not yet entire. He smiled and said diplomatically, "That's true, but always aided by friends along the way—Yssym in Gessyth, Menelian in Kandahar, the drachomanii in Cuan na'For. We should not forget that, Bracht. Nor spurn the advice of newfound allies."
"Likely Ochen speaks true," added Katya, laying a hand on the Kern's arm. "And likely we shall travel the faster in his company."
Bracht looked, for an instant, as if he would argue, but then he shrugged, essaying a somewhat embarrassed smile. "Aye, perhaps you're right," he admitted, bowing his conciliation. "Forgive me."
"We'd none of us delay longer than we must," said Ochen. "But nor would we leave clan brothers in jeopardy."
That reasoning was such as Bracht understood: he nodded, murmuring further apologies.
"I think," said the mage, his voice mild, "that we must all accustom ourselves to unforeseen alliances. The Mad God threatens us all, and that should make us comrades, no?"
"It should," Calandryll said firmly.
"Aye," said Bracht. Then grinned, adding, "But still I'd see us on our way as soon as we may."
"Then best," returned Ochen, himself smiling, "that I commence my task. Do you go with Chazali, and he'll show you your quarters."
"And feed you," said the kiriwashen. "Or would you bathe first?"
Katya and Cennaire said, "Bathe"; Calandryll and Bracht said, "Eat." And Chazali laughed; for the first time, Calandryll realized, the simple sound rendering the impassive visage suddenly friendly, confirming the bond that formed between them.
"I suggest," said the Jesseryte, "that we defer to the women. Do I show you to your quarters and then to the bathhouse?"
Calandryll bowed, gesturing that Chazali lead on.
THE chambers assigned them were spartan, little more than cells built into an inner wall, each with a narrow window, shuttered but lacking glass, that afforded a view down into an inner courtyard, across to the keep's ramparts. Each contained a single bed, alcoves cut into the sandy-colored stone of the walls, a washstand, a locker,- nothing more. The uncarpeted floors, the walls, the ceilings, and the doors were marked with Ochen's magical sigils, the paint not yet completely dry. They left their gear inside and followed Chazali to the bathhouse.
The corridors and halls they traversed were dim- lit, painted with more glyphs, the armored figures of Makusen warriors parting before the kiriwashen, observing the strangers with slanted, incurious eyes. The bathhouse itself was on the lowest level, a wide, low-roofed hall misty with steam from the huge tubs set into the floor. There were no windows, the sole illumination a series of fat yellow candles set on sconces along the walls, those painted with yet more sigils.
Chazali ushered them inside, hesitating a moment as if wary of offending guests, and said, "I am unfamiliar with your customs. Do you bathe together, or alone ?"
Bracht grinned at Katya, not speaking, and Calandryll thought the Vanu woman blushed, though in the dimness it was hard to tell. He found himself wondering how Cennaire would react did he suggest they bathe together, and what it would be like to share a tub with Irer, his own cheeks warming at the thought's excitement. He fought the temptation, saying, "Alone," in a voice gone suddenly gruff, so that Bracht's grin turned from Katya to him and he felt the flush suffuse his cheeks the more.
Chazali ducked his head and strode halfway down the hall, near lost in mist and shadow, reaching out to draw a screen from the wall, a cunningly articulated construction of lacquered wood that extended across the room, hiding one tub from another. Turning to the women, he said courteously, "Do you remain here, then. When you are finished, a man will bring you to your quarters." To the men, he said, "Do you come with me," and led them back through the door, along a corridor to another entrance.
He left them and they stripped, sliding gratefully into the tub, finding it deep, and filled with water close to boiling. From beyond the dividing partition came the sound of splashing and the low murmur of voices, reminding Calandryll that only that thin screen stood between him and the naked Cennaire: excitement returned.
"Such modesty." Bracht's voice was deliberately grave. "I commend you."
The water's heat was such that his skin was already red, the Kern's face indistinct behind the rising steam. He was grateful for that as he muttered, "I'd not embarrass her. Or Katya/'
Bracht's answer was a loud laugh. Calandryll blushed deeper and said, "Katya advised me not to press too hard."
"I suspect you'd not find her unwilling," came the reply. "I saw her face as we spoke and she had eyes only for you, save when Ochen addressed her directly. I believe you find favor there."
Calandryll sought a suitable response, but found none, contenting himself with a noncommittal grunt as he wondered if Bracht spoke true, or merely bantered with him. He hoped it was the truth, albeit he was unsure what steps he should take were it so.
"Still, we shall have time enough, it seems," the Kern remarked, deliberately casual. "A night, another day, in this place—what might happen?"
"Likely nothing," returned Calandryll, sharper than he intended, aware embarrassment lent an edge of irritation that Bracht cheerfully ignored.
"And then days—and long nights—on the road to Pamur-teng."
"The which applies in equal measure to you and Katya."
"Ah, but we made a vow," said Bracht, quite unabashed. "While you suffer no such stricture. Only temptation."
"Not long ago you spoke for sending her back," Calandryll declared.
"Aye." The bantering tone departed, the Kern's voice become serious. "And I would still, save you appear fixed on bringing her."
"She knows Rhythamun's face," he replied.
"Ochen seems confident enough of recognizing him," Bracht countered. "And should he take another's form . . . what use is she then? Save she warms your blankets along the way, I say she's baggage."
Calandryll felt irritation grow—the more for the accuracy of the Kern's words: with Ochen for ally, Cennaire did seem supernumerary; but still he was loath to bid her farewell. He hid ire and confusion behind a lathering of soap and vigorous scrubbing.
"Well?" Bracht insisted.
Forced to respond, Calandryll shrugged soapy shoulders. "Does it not seem strange we found her there, at the Daggan Vhe?" he asked. "And she observer to Rhythamun's taking of another shape? Perhaps there was a design in that."
"Perhaps," Bracht allowed.
"And still all we agreed there stands," Calandryll went on, not certain whether he spoke to convince the Kern or himself, only that he wished Cennaire to remain. "The Jesserytes would bring her across the Kess Imbrun, but what then? Must she cross Cuan na'For alone?"
"Aye, there's that," admitted Bracht.
Calandryll pounced on the reluctance in his friend's voice. "Think you she could make such a journey?" he demanded. "A solitary woman? Helpless? Would you condemn her to that?"
"Ahrd!" Bracht grunted. "I concede the argument—she stays, and I'll say no more. Save"—he chuckled lewdly—"that you, being under no vow, follow my advice."
"Perhaps I shall," Calandryll muttered, and sank beneath the water as the Kern laughed again and said, "It would do you good ..."
"... like a young stallion with ..."
Calandryll submerged again.
&
nbsp; "... mare," he heard as he broke surface, replying more coolly than he intended, "I'd not name her mare."
Bracht heard the indignation in his voice and said, "My friend, I only jest. No, she's certainly no mare; and do you bed her or not, that's between the two of you, and none other."
Mollified, Calandryll nodded.
"So, I'll not speak of it again." Bracht tossed soap away and sank himself awhile. "Now, do we drag ourselves from this cooking pot before our blood boils?"
Benches were set along the walls and they rested there awhile, cooling, discussing all they had learned, all that lay ahead.
"We've at least a destination now," Calandryll remarked, "albeit an army stands betwixt it and us."
"That may well delay Rhythamun in equal measure," Bracht grunted, toweling his long hair, "and we've allies to speed our passage."
Calandryll turned his head, studying the Kern with a grin. "Your tune changes," he said. "Are the Jesserytes no longer monsters?"
"It would seem not," Bracht answered with a shrug, a somewhat shamefaced smile._"Ahrd, but I grew up with tales of their depravity—which now appear no more than that: tales—and that's a hard burden to shed. But I learn, you see? I learn to trust sorcerers, so should I not trust those who offer aid? Perhaps there is a design in this,- perhaps Horul sent these Makusen to aid us."
"Aye, perhaps." Calandryll's murmured response was thoughtful.
Bracht chuckled: "With all we face, best hope it's so. For now, however, I hope to fill my belly. So, do we find the dining hall?"
As if reminded they had eaten nothing since the morning, Calandryll's stomach rumbled. "Aye," he agreed.
Dressed, they found a man waiting outside the bathhouse, half-armored, his manner deferential as if they now occupied a new status, no longer captives but respected guests. He bowed, murmuring that they should follow him, and brought them through the shadowy corridors to their quarters, politely explaining that such outfits as were more suitable to the company of wazir and kiriwashen were prepared for them.
Within his cell, Calandryll found candles burning, lighting the simple chamber to a more, to him, normal level, confirming his belief that the Jesserytes possessed such eyes as saw better in the dark than his. He looked about and saw the gear he had tossed carelessly on the bed was now neatly stowed in alcoves and locker, his sword set upright on a stand of dark red wood. On the bed he found clothing of Jesseryte fashion—a shirt of pale blue silk; a wide-shouldered crimson tunic embroidered with a snarling dragon in gold and green that wound sinewy across the chest, an emblem he assumed was that of the Makusen clan sewn in black and silver on the back; loose white trousers; and ankle boots of soft green hide. So grand a costume brought back memories of Secca, and for an instant he recalled that the last time he had dressed in such finery he had hoped to win Nadama den Ecvin, and that her rejection of his suit had sent him out, chagrined, to drown his sorrow and thus encounter Bracht . . . that this whole long journey into the unknown had begun there, in that instant he knew Nadama was lost to him. He smiled as he drew on the tunic: her face was blurred now, and when he endeavored to find it, he saw Cennaire's instead. Perhaps, he thought, he should take Bracht's advice, or Katya's, which was to allow events to take their natural course. Bracht's way was direct, Katya's more subtle; and she was, after all, a woman. Therefore, he told himself as he wound a sash of iridescent gold about his waist, Katya should know best, and he be better advised to heed her. Aye, he would bide his time and judge the moment rather than press headlong onward.
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